A Work in Progress
by ranestorm007
Summary: Sometimes you have to lose yourself to find out where you are. When John disappears, Sara goes on a different kind of hunt. Post Episode 10 fanfic for the TNT drama "The Alienist."
1. Daemones

**"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." - William Shakespeare**

Like a badly scratched record, Sara's mind kept playing their day in the countryside, a small picnic in the sun near her great aunt's manor where she'd eventually fallen after her father's death and her time in the sanitarium.

They had perfect weather - sunshine, light breeze...But their carriage passing through the gates was a Pandora's box creaking open, the gilded house holding a flood of doleful memories. And she realized that bringing John "home" represented an intimacy between them, one step closer perhaps than she was ready to take, making him even more privy to the past that shaped her.

John packed an art kit that he never opened, too absorbed with just sharing her company. And she cherished their talks, as well, in her own quiet way. But as hard as she tried, too much of her past tainted the present.

Going there returned her to a darker place and her worlds collided, but she couldn't tell John that the city was what had finally made her whole, that their lovely day in the countryside had been a mistake, that she felt more broken in that fresh air than she had even in the darkest days of their first investigation.

She wanted to believe in the bright day's perfection. She loved his deep laugh, how the sun brought out the green in his eyes…the sandpaper warmth when he pressed his lips against her cheek and let them linger.

Maybe some people could find it idyllic, but it only reminded her of everything she wanted to do and become, the hard growth that she had to force, the memories that still needed to heal. And how finding a man was, in some sense, the easy way out – a weak woman's white flag. And she was not weak.

She was just another chase to John Moore, a flight of fancy. She had to be. Why else would he express interest in her when she terrified most men? Additionally, he was an indolent dreamer and a hopeless romantic. Nothing about John Schuyler Moore was responsible or practical. Or necessary. She didn't need a man, let alone one with no direction whatsoever, especially not when her future had so many hand-built roads cobbled before her.

So when he pulled the ring from his pocket, she said, "John, no" before he even opened the box or words left his lips; his expression more than the crestfallen sigh he'd given when she'd rebuffed him in days past for other insistent declarations of love.

She knew in many ways he was just as broken, and the hurt in his face crushed her. But she just smiled at him, not sorrowfully but fondly. Poor John, who just couldn't see that she wasn't what he needed. She didn't know what he did need, but maybe if he could look past her for a bit he could find it.

She was doing both of them a favor.

On the carriage ride back, they rode in silence, his head leaning slightly against the glass, gaze looking forward. When she took his hand tentatively, he softly squeezed it, even brought it to his lips for a small kiss…fleeting, like he didn't deserve the consolation.

And he kept her hand in his for the ride back, although his eyes stayed fixed on the world as it passed them by through the murky windows.

 _Author's Note: This is a nine-chapter fanfic, and the chapters will be short. Please review or follow if you enjoy it, I'll try and get it completed by mid-June!_


	2. Perhaps You've Already Played It

**_"Choices are the hinges of destiny." - Edwin Markham_**

"And yet, once again, John fails to meet an appointment."

Marcus and Lucius flitted out the front door, heading in opposite directions with leads to follow for the Task Force's new assignment as Laszlo organized papers into tidy piles, shuffling with an irritation that perhaps only Sara would notice. She took a short mental pause, reflecting on whether to tell him.

"John has disappeared," she said flatly.

Kriszler looked up, his face unchanged by the news.

"Disappeared…"

Sara let her shoulders fall a bit and sat back down in the chair she'd occupied for the past hour.

"After he missed our first meeting, I went by Grandmother Moore's. Over breakfast last Sunday he apparently said it was best time that he stop infringing on the good nature of those who didn't need him. She hasn't seen him since…. He sent a carriage for his things the next day, they were already boxed up and ready for moving. But that week he was constantly drinking….She said he never stopped."

"That's no excuse for missing our first two meetings in this case. He's far too sensitive for his own good," Laszlo snapped, but his brow furrowed.

Roosevelt had recently volunteered the five as his newly appointed Special Task Force, to investigate patterned homicides within the city and this was their third case. All behind closed doors, of course, their dealings wouldn't make The Times any day soon. And the post mortem honoring of Connor hadn't fooled anyone in police circles, not only were all covert eyes on the task force but they also had to prove their ongoing worth to Roosevelt.

So Sara understood Kriezler's irritation. John's disappearance irritated her, too. But more so, it...upset her.

"It's not uncommon for John to run away and lick his wounds, he'll return shortly…But it's perplexing to say the least… He's seemed on the upswing, as it were."

Laszlo slowly sat down across from Sara, rubbing at the edge of his beard and ruminating the news.

"He's been enthusiastic about the new task force. And Joseph is finally off to boarding school and doing well, his nightmares have lessened. Not a dinner has gone by without him mentioning Joseph's grades, his newly found proficiency in art… his making the football team." Laszlo's voice sounded longsuffering at the mention of sports. "And he's spoken quite often…and quite fondly…of you, as well, of course."

Sara looked from the window to find Laszlo's eyes on her, and her lips parted as she decided whether to indulge him further. For although they shared a unique bond, knowing unspoken things about each other, she imagined that nothing would fully span the gulf between them. She found him to be, among other things, emotionally callous. As much as he intrigued her, in many ways, she saw too much of herself in his eyes to get any closer. But she wanted to defend John, if not explain.

"I told him that I would never marry him…That I wasn't really what he needed or wanted. I guess…" She took long slow breath. "I guess perhaps he might have taken that harder than intended; however, it was nothing that I hadn't told him previously."

Laszlo studied her, something subtle in his eyes that she couldn't read.

"I see. And do you truly believe that or is the hesitation to enter a relationship with John less about him and more about yourself."

"John is in love with the idea of being in love, nothing more."

"You don't take him seriously," Laszlo quickly responded.

"I don't take his advances seriously, no. I'm just the woman in front of him at the moment."

"You'll never see him as anything more than handsome but indolent. I told him as much."

The comeback hit Sara like a blow, even though she remembered the phrase leave her mouth not once, but twice.

"That's not true…Why would you tell him that?"

Laszlo studied her unabashedly, surprised by the anger in her voice.

"Perhaps I said it to hurt him in a moment of defensiveness, to be honest. But I didn't imagine it to be an incorrect sentiment."

"Of course he's more than that, he's not just a sum of his flaws…Although that would be his father's take."

Sara watched the smallest of smiles flit across Laszlo's face before he went serious again.

"He's complicated…and…broken….but he's deceptively smart and incredibly kind and creative… And he makes me smile. He's just a work in progress, driven by his dreams but held back by his grief, I guess…Chasing whatever stifles it. I'm just not looking to be the balm that he thinks will heal his life, though. I can't be that for anyone.…. I truly believe we can only be that for ourselves."

Laszlo's face blatantly said that he didn't agree, but he took a while to speak.

"Sara…I think John knows that people can't fix others, but they can be the impetus to fix ourselves. All things happen for a reason. If that reason is another person it doesn't make him weak. He stopped drinking for you. He's stayed sober for you, and for Joseph. But if you've taken away one of the few reasons he's had to keep moving upward, don't fault him for falling backward. Only he can control that but you have to realize that all minds work differently. John regresses into himself, he falls into vices to escape and abuses himself out of pity. Let him deal with things in his own way. Don't seek him out. He'll return when he's ready."


	3. Lost and Found

The deliveries came fast the day he moved in; he rearranged furniture more than once, and the dresser and bed he bought for Joseph even fit perfectly in one of the extra rooms. But maybe Joseph wouldn't want to visit or stay for the summers…A guest room he'd call it then, for whomever might come to town…

But he liked the new furniture's blank slate, only new memories connected to it when he slept, ate, made love, drank himself into a stupor, what have you. Any happenings, both good and bad, would be his and only his in this place. And that heartened him, even as he planned to fall into old habits with no one looking over his shoulder in judgement.

That first night he drank a week's worth of whiskey and woke like a lead weight latched to the floor, his clothes off, eyes clamped shut against the harsh light coming through the windows. A deep cut on his left palm and glass shards from a blue vase strewn chaotically across the wooden floor spoke of a misery he couldn't recall. He threw up in the fine new toilet of his bathroom and finding nothing in the house to eat, wretchedly drank water from his cupped hand, watching the water soak into the makeshift bandage he'd wrapped around it, pink fluid dripping down his fingers. And the rest of the day he lay curled tightly on the bed, staring at nothing, listening to sounds of his breath and the city moving forward without him just past the windows.

But on Tuesday, John ran to all the unemotional tasks his new home provided. He noted missing things, realizing he'd never had his own place, not even at university. Sheets, salt, cutlery… a broom. Digging into the details of building a home that week became the best distraction he'd had in ages, for it was nothing but simple errands and mundane shopping. And five flasks a day, sipped through the hours, to keep the symptoms at bay, just enough to stay productive. He tried not to think about drinking more than the measured swallows, but his body whispered for it, then pleaded, the physical discomforts of withdrawal surfacing.

And so that Friday John picked up two large bottles of Evan Williams pure rye and a dozen sweet rolls from the bakery on the bottom floor. He'd see Joseph at 10:00 that morning then come home...drink….perhaps call on Flora. For once she could make a house call and he'd get her out of that molding, decrepit hall end room.

But it was like going to the barn for branding every time. Flora didn't care about him…didn't even like him, really; their "dates" were an exchange of practiced words and precious money and for him just a moment to transform hard feelings into pleasure. But to look into her eyes was to look into Julia's once again. And every time the shame disappeared for a few fleeting seconds of release then left him with a sadness compounded.

It was a sexual attempt to create Pavlovian response, Kriezler said. "You think you can rewrite everything hurting you into something new, but your methods are snake oil. Learn to accept yourself and you'll never feel shame again."

John winced, remembering Kriezler's words.

"I accept myself fully, Laszlo, no one has ever had trouble telling me what I am. I know my truth better than anyone."

But Laszlo turned away from him, looking out the warped window. "None of us are the definitions forced upon us by others, John. You should know that by now."

Of course, he hadn't seen Flora in many months….not since Sara and the early days of their first case. But why not go back to Flora for their daily ritual. And what ring to give her at this point now that he had two, he thought, the musing so bitter that he actually laughed.

At the school doors, Joseph rushed to meet him, took him by the arm and before he even said hello, the boy laughed, something John thought he'd never hear again during all Joseph's months at Kriezler's institute, when he'd crawled within his own silence for many weeks then slowly found his words again, extracting himself carefully over time into a brighter place.

They walked the grounds and talked about Joseph's classes, how much he enjoyed football. He cautiously admitted that it channeled a lot of his bad memories and made his mind lighter. And he asked what happened to John's hand, brows knotted in concern; but as he reached out to inspect the bandage, John shoved his hand in a pants pocket, changing the topic back to school with a small chuckle.

When they arrived back at the schoolyard, John handed him the weekly care package still tucked under his arm, the sweet rolls, a new wool cap and warm coat for the fall, and a leather bound sketchbook from Bergdorf's.

"Thanks," Joseph murmured but with a genuine grin that John desperately needed, suddenly realizing how much of a salve that smile was in comparison to the distractions he'd planned for the upcoming days.

But when he asked if Joseph would like to come into the city for the weekend, the boy looked embarrassed to say no.

"Well, some of the boys, we're working on some plays. Our first game is next Tuesday."

"Ah..," John said with guarded disappointment. "Well, perhaps another weekend, and I'll attend the game on Tuesday, if you don't mind my being there!"

Joseph nodded but picked at the skin on one of his fingers, like he wanted to say something else but settled on, "Ok, Mr. Moore," and John put a hand lightly behind Joseph's neck then rested it on the top of his head with an encouraging smile.

"You're doing so well here, better than I did even. I'm proud of you."

Joseph looked straight into John's eyes and he returned the gaze hesitantly, his smile breaking a bit at Joseph's intensity.

"Mr. Moore? Can I…. Are you my dad now?"

John felt his chest go tight.

"Well….I'm your guardian, but you're free to call me…..what would like to call me?"

Joseph looked down at the skin along his nail, errantly bit it then looked away.

"It just feels like we should figure things out, people ask me…who's the man who comes to see you every weekend, that your father?" He shrugged. "I don't know what to say. They don't know anything about…about when I was…and I wish there was somethin' I could say. Just…anything. I don't know. I got nothing to say."

John's mind raced. The boy needed to steer his future however he could, especially since others had steered it for so long. But what if he told Joseph what he wanted? Worst case scenario, Joseph would turn him down. And John had heard that often enough, of course, he could take hearing it again. Or could he.

"I dunno…I just sort of need to know is all. And guardian sounds like….It shouldn't matter, but I've had a lot of owners… And bosses and customers. All those sons of bitches…..You've never been like any of them…but I called all of them Mister this or that, too… So what are we?"

With more defeat than intended, John let out a held breath and said, "Joseph… I'd be honored to be your father, but I don't want you to consider that unless it's what you want."

"But that's what you want?" Joseph said, his voice tight and hopeful.

And John let go of the retreat he'd invested so heavily in lately, even as he clung to it like a safety line.

"I'd love to call you 'son,' it would mean the world to me. But not until you're ready…this is your life, Joseph.….You're young, and smart. Resilient. More resilient than me," John laughed, feeling his eyes well up. "Only you know what you truly need. But when you're ready…I'm ready to be your father."

"Why wouldn't I be ready? So you're my dad. Thanks for coming today…Dad." Joseph's smile on that last word was pure sunlight, then he called over his shoulder to a group nearby. "Hey, boys! C'mere, have you met my dad?"

After leaving the school, John went straight home, forgoing the plan to call on Flora and stop by The White Horse for extra alcohol in case he was too trashed later to procure more. He went upstairs and pulled the two large bottles of beautiful caramel fluid from their crinkly wrapping; and as the sun went down over the East River poured both bottles slowly to the ground below. When the second bottle had one last dreg, John put it to his lips held it around his tongue and teeth for a precious few seconds before spitting it out, as well.

He wiped slowly at a drip running down his chin and stared at the splattered dark blot five stories below then leaned against the balcony wall, taking a deep breath, maybe deeper than he'd taken in ages. He looked down at his bandaged, shaking hands; the harsher tremors would return soon, the night sweats. But a slow smile came to his lips, as wide as Joseph's when he called him "Dad."


	4. This Game of Ghosts

"Hello. I've come to inquire if John Schuyler Moore has any assignments this week that might bring him to the office."

The receptionist's eyes narrowed just slightly.

"Mr. Moore is no longer an illustrator for The Times, I believe he tendered his resignation several weeks ago."

"I see, thank you," Sara responded quietly and walked out the broad ornate doors of the New York Times office in the heart of downtown, taking a deep breath in the stagnant, windless air of the evening.

"What is he doing," she whispered to herself as foot traffic bustled in and out around her.

She'd talked to several of his sporting companions who frequented the bar at Delmonico's, she'd even gone by the brothel where John spent a good year daily inserting money into that house's profits. No one had seen him.

She'd scoured the Tenderloin, all the barkeeps and barmaids knew him by either first name or description. Ah, yes, the dapper black-haired gentleman, tall, well built, sharp dresser, heavy drinker, good tipper. She soon found that pretty much everyone knew John. "Tell him I said hello if you find him, hope he's ok wherever he's off to," she heard almost verbatim, more than once.

Grandmother Moore had seen him twice in so many months but he didn't appear by any schedule and never stayed long. She asked where he'd gone and between bites of whatever she brought out to give him, never taking no for an answer when it came to feeding family, he told her he was fine, not to worry.

When she said he looked thin, he complimented her roast and mentioned that he'd finally learned to cook toast in the oven without burning it black. But when she said his friends were calling after him, worried, he said nothing and went quiet, like she had just mentioned his father. And Granny Moore didn't like what that meant.

"Sara, I told him that you were desperately looking for him," she said with a shrill urgency. "He just said, 'thank you for letting me know, Gram.' In that longsuffering voice he gives me, you know how John is!"

Other than staking out Grandmother Moore's house for weeks, Sara didn't know what else to do. They'd finally completed their last case, though, and had yet to receive another one. Other than her publicly acknowledged 9 to 5 for Roosevelt, what else did she have to do until another case arrived.

Of course, there were social engagements but lately she'd declined them all. She missed him… Public outings were pointless, she spent every errand in the streets scanning covertly for his face. Conversations and dinners with friends were constantly interrupted with, "Sara? Are you listening?" as her mind wandered to approaching his disappearance like a regular case, probing their past conversations for clues, hoping he was ok, that he was happy, healthy. Was he drinking again, was he sick or hurt?

She'd never worried so much about a person in her life, and it made her angry. Angry that she'd not realized what he'd become to her but, even moreso, angry that he'd disappear, leaving her to feel the way she did. Then Sara realized…he wouldn't do that to her. And that meant that he didn't really know how she felt. Perhaps because she hadn't known, either…until he was gone.


	5. Delerium Tremens

**"Long is the way and hard, that out of hell leads up to light." - John Milton**

 _It's a dream. You're sick. It's just a dream._

John crawled slowly from the bed, leaving a curled shadow in sweat on the sheets, and fell to the floor, eyes straining to focus.

 _It's not real._

The voices hissed sharply, whispering his name and speaking over each other, cacophonic. He heard judgement in their tone. Vitriol. Joseph stood over him and said nothing, disappointment evident in his face.

John floated above the room, below it, could feel his body struggling to walk yet he didn't move. His head hit the floor hard and hot blood trickled through his hair, the ceiling fading in and out.

He could practically see the ethereal air, feel it enter his lungs like thick fluid. He was breathing in an underwater haze, straining to see the shadowy figures around him. Three gray figures, their eye orbits bloody holes where they'd once seen the world but enough of their features salvaged in their remains that he recognized them all – his brother Samuel, Mary, Sara's father with his face hanging in ragged remnants, dead on the floor besides him.

Julia and Flora stood near the window, smoking and scheming, watching him carefully.

"Is the pleasure in the pain?" Julia hissed through tendrils of smoke, and when the O of her mouth blew a soft flame that lit the room, Flora cackled in approval.

The fire burned him and he hurt everywhere, could feel sweat tickling at his skin, beading and running downward.

"Samuel?"

His brother looked down at him, something hopeful in his eyeless face

"I'm sorry, Sam…" John managed to stand but when he touched his brother the figured faded and a hearty laugh behind him made him turn to find their father, who could hurl a million affronts with one glimpse, a maroon hole in his chest around the tattered shreds of his shirt, his heart missing.

"You disgust me," he spat.

 _It's just a dream…._

Everything went black and silent except his strained breaths then his eyes opened again to the shock of bright flashes, streaks of electricity lighting a room still full of shadowy figures. Rain clattered against the heavy windows, then pounded. John staggered to the windowed double doors lining the entire main loft room and found them all locked, leaning his wet forehead against the heavy glass as he made his way to the each one. He vaguely remembered locking them. And putting away kitchen knives and his task force hand gun, knowing the storm of withdrawal would be the worst he'd weathered.

"Here…with you all," he mumbled. "Mary…he loved you."

"Why, John?" she said and his eyes went wide to hear her speak.

He dug in the desk drawer and brought out Mary's ring.

"This was yours. He loved you….it was for you. I asked him to bury you with it but he said ghosts have no care for trinkets…he was…that week….so happy. You were everything he ever wanted."

Mary watched him carefully before her image faded then Sara appeared.

"Everything…I ever wanted. You were everything."

She gazed down at the ring in his hand then looked into his eyes, her face slowly breaking into a sneer before she slapped the ring out of his hand. And other voices in the room howled with echoing laughter.

Then below him, the wooden floor went clear, Samuel's palms pressed against a watery barrier, white and flat. And suddenly the barrier broke free and John fell into the watery depths with him, hands reaching desperately for his brother as they both drowned.

xxx

John woke with a gasp, shooting upright like he'd been doused with freezing water, heartbeat pounding behind his eyes. He struggled to focus against the reality of bright sunshine flooding the room.

His skin stung with the grit of dried sweat, his lungs burned as he felt the back of his head, caked with blood. But he knew that he'd run withdrawal's worst gauntlet and survived.

Seven miles across town on Madison Avenue, Sara Howard also woke from a nightmare with a start, remember the pleading look on John's face in the dream as she laughed at him derisively.

"It was just a dream," she whispered to herself, even as her mind admitted it was a memory amplified.


	6. Credo

**_"What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us." - Ralph Waldo Emerson_**

 _Two months later_

Developers had transformed the seven-story gaslight factory just along the East River's edge into beautiful new homes with installed balconies spanning the full length of eight pressed glass windows for each family, two ornate doors in the middle opening to the morning sunshine where people could sit and hear the deep horns of passing barges and the clopping hooves of horse drawn carriages crossing the Brooklyn bridge a stone's throw downstream.

Everything old was becoming new again in their age, for as the market for gas streetlamps diminished with the burgeoning electric industry, so old factories received new faces and revived city life by the river again.

John loved spring nights in his new home, and the grey moonlight scattering through his room was the first thing he painted, mixing black and white oils with blues and purples. He slept with the windows open, patchy breeze rustling papers on his desk, the sound of barges parting the still water, and in the morning, seagulls calling out as they carved through the air.

The sounds were different here than deep in the city, where the streets never slept. Here on the bare edge of commerce things were cleaner, simpler. Not the countryside but just on the horizon of it, and he found that his thoughts were clearer, like he finally had space to let his mind breath again. And once his tremors finally stopped, the blinders came off, too.

He'd virtually smothered Sara, calling on her daily, verbally prodding her for some sign of approval that always left him rebuffed. In clear hindsight, it made him feel bad…she deserved so much more than constant bombardment from an old family friend.

John studied the ring Laszlo gave him, the ring his friend handed to him under the table with, "I hope you can find someone to give it to." Of course, they both knew what he wanted. It was like a family's blessing for the two of them in a way; and John knew what the ring, what Mary, had meant to Laszlo. In that short, dangerous trip he'd never seen his friend so evidently giddy, overcome with something new and wondrous. Even if he'd couched it in science, it was real.

"Maybe you're not meant for either of us," he said to the ring, his thumb running errantly over the stones. Then John snapped the box shut and placed it in the desk drawer, deciding that he would keep it for that joyous moment when Joseph fell in love one day. Maybe it was a ring for new beginnings and their lives were too deeply entrenched in the ugly complexities of the world to ever be simple and beautiful again.

And maybe his love life would never rise above the shambles of his past, but everyday life was truly better again, even though his jaw and chest still went tight, eyes welling, when he thought of Sara. And he thought of her often. But she was free of his unwelcome pining now, at least. Free to excel in all the ways he knew she would. One day she'd be lead detective, not only the first woman on the force but the first one to lead it.

In the last few weeks, he'd considered calling on Roosevelt to officially resign from the Task Force; however, their group was never official anyway… Besides, Roosevelt knew as much as anyone on the team, that John wasn't terribly integral to its function. He opened doors, he could weave a good back story and get people talking with his easy manner; but he knew that he lacked the deductive genius of the others.

And John found that he didn't miss the paper, let alone the high society world he'd illustrated for it. He'd left Madison Avenue behind to find where he truly belonged and that was slowly happening. He had a wonderful son who truly needed him. And he was painting. Even the few commissions he'd already completed had worth to people; and in that worth he felt his own value growing, not because of a sell price or an art placement but because he was bringing something beautiful to the world again.

One sunny weekend he took Joseph to the countryside, just a small family with their sketchbooks, and they hiked and drew the spring flowers, sitting in the patchy new grass of April. Joseph showed promise with charcoals and pencils but especially loved watercolors.

"Dad, with the color cakes you can show all the layers and light in everything. That's why they're the best."

John smiled and studied the boy intently as he mixed yellow with a bit of orange from the small metal case balanced in the greenery.

"I'm partial to oils, but it's true, everything has different shades and layers…even people…It's probably just in the last few months that I've realized that…. It's a good way to see life. Good way to paint a picture, too!"

"Do you think someone will pay me to paint pictures one day?" Joseph asked quietly, focusing on his brush strokes, the thick paper pad laying on his crossed legs.

"I think you should do whatever will make you happy when you're older and not worry about what people will pay you for."

Joseph looked up, amused.

"Then I'm going to be a football player."

John let out a huge laugh.

"No one is going to pay you to play a game, but I think that sounds wonderful."

And it did sound wonderful. Maybe it wasn't so bad to be a hopeless dreamer after all.


	7. Sheltered Hearts

**_"_ _A cord of three strands is not easily torn apart." - Ecclesiastes_**

"Sara….are you alright."

Kriezler's words didn't even register until his hand fell lightly on her shoulder.

He sat down at the table, fingering the cane's handle before letting it fall lightly against his shoulder. Laszlo wore a robe tied loosely over night clothes, and she suddenly realized how late she'd arrived at his door.

"Cyrus said you wanted to see me. Do we have word from Roosevelt regarding a new case?"

"No, I just thought I'd come by and see if…. Have you heard at all from John?"

Laszlo's body lost some of its tension.

"I've not heard from John," he said, tilting his head slightly.

Sara sat silently for a moment, looking out the window.

"I miss him, as well, Sara. But I assume that we'll see him when he's ready."

"No," she said immediately. "I need to find him. You're his friend, help me find him. We need to at least check on him, ensure that he's safe."

"Why?"

"….Why?" Sara practically glared at him, incredulous.

"Why should we ensure that John is fine? Because we care for him?"

"Of course."

"Do you think that John knows that you care for him? Does he assume that you're going through this struggle to find him? That you can't sleep at night? That you have dreams that he's hurt and no one comes to his aid?"

Sara's hands went limp in her lap. _Why did she tell him about the dream._ But she'd had it more than once.

"I don't think he knows that his disappearance has upset me, no."

The room went quiet for a full minute, Laszlo feeling somehow vindicated but then he noticed Sara's expression. She looked as if she'd gone hunting and just made the most magnificent kill.

"Dr. Kriezler, until now, I haven't asked if you've seen John, haven't asked for your help. Even if I hadn't known…you've inadvertently divulged everything. Of course, you would help me look for John now. Too much time has passed and you love him like a brother, even if you rarely show it."

Kriezler leaned back slowly in the chair, hand gripping hard at the cane handle. She was the best detective in the city. Of course she knew.

"You ate dinner with John last night at Delmonico's. Beef bourguignon with potatoes, both of you. And you had a whiskey chaser that you had to practically choke down. John drank lemonade."

She paused for some kind of response but received none. He wasn't even remotely surprised, just irritated. Maybe this would surprise him.

"On the 24th he visited you here, arriving at 7:45 am and leaving at 10:23; and on the 18th, you took a walk with him and Joseph in Central Park. At one point John appeared angry and Joseph agitated. Based on information from a woman sitting on a nearby park bench, I surmise that you asked too many questions about Japheth Drury since Joseph remains one of your best sources for insight into that killer's mind; and it angered John, who wants Joseph to, like himself, be able to move beyond things that have hurt him and start anew."

Laszlo look at her evenly with the barest of nods, waiting an awkwardly long time to respond.

"I daresay you're the only person to ever follow me without my knowledge….. Well done, Miss Howard."

She continued, not missing a beat.

"John has a loft in the old gaslamp factory on the East River. He's painting. And also writing. He's sold three anonymous works for low pay but that appears to be a hobby. His paintings, on the other hand, are quickly gaining a name in the city and beyond it."

"And yet, knowing all of this, you haven't contacted him…Why."

"I haven't contacted him for the same reason you just lied to me. Because he doesn't want to see me," she answered immediately, with a hint of sadness.

"If it somehow makes you feel better, he hasn't said that. In true honesty, Miss Howard, we haven't discussed you. I've left that for him to broach. And I told you….we'll see him when he's ready. He came to me. I did not seek him out."

When Sara didn't respond he added, "John is in a good place. He's happy."

"Ultimately, that's all I need to know."

But her words rang false and they both knew it.

Laszlo leaned forward in the chair, studying her intently, then got up and poured two whiskeys from a crystal bottle resting on a tray near the bookshelves. Pinching both in one hand, he walked over and placed both on the desk in front of her, picking up the second.

But instead of hiding behind the desk again, he sat in the chair opposite her, looking into the drink before he took a small sip. Sara smiled in spite of herself.

"You still hate it."

Laszlo chuckled and side glanced at her, smiling.

"Slightly, but I'm learning to love many things that I used to avoid." Gazing into his glass, he asked quietly, "Are you attracted at all to John?"

Sara immediately felt her chest go tight.

"That has nothing to do with the matter at hand."

"Then why evade the question?"

When he looked up, she stared at him like the two had just entered thin ice, but his expression never changed.

"I'm not attempting to embarrass you, I'm searching for answers, Miss Howard. Answers that will help me define the parameters of this relationship between the two of you. You rebuffed him then let his absence ruin your waking life, even your sleep. So if you come to me for answers then be prepared to receive them but also be prepared to speak to the matter. I never ask for information idly and I didn't get out of bed to amuse myself."

"Dr. Kriezler, John is quite handsome; in all the years you've known him, surely you've noticed."

I'm not talking about aesthetic attractiveness, Miss Howard, I'm talking about chemistry. Does your heart race when he's near you, does the smell of him make your heart skip, when he touches your hand, kisses your cheek, are you aroused by those small intimacies?"

Sara's eyes shut in consternation….the man had no sense of boundaries.

"Yes," she said flatly. "I am deeply attracted to John. For whatever that's worth to you."

"Very good then…And do you love him?"

Sara took in a deep breath.

"That's irrelevant if we both know that I'm not ready to marry him."

"Did I ask you if you wanted to marry him?" Laszo's voice went stern. "You define your relationship with him as all or nothing. But John is not as old fashioned as you take him to be even though society raised a gentleman. John searches for happiness and contentment in dreams that fall outside of what society expects of him. And you're constantly searching, yet operating in a system that won't allow you to pursue your dreams in your own way, because you're female.

You find your escape in goals, John finds his in moments. And neither your goals nor John's moments have been acceptable to the world.

But that constant search can kill us. It's what drove his brother to the unfortunate drug habit that eventually drowned him…do you think his brother, who was an ardent swimmer, drowned because of the weather? Do you think John blames himself for his brother's death more than you blame yourself for your father's? Do you think either of you has handled your losses better than the people who were eventually destroyed by them?"

Lazlo's voice rose yet another decibel.

"And you judge John for his methods. You've pushed him away. When in reality your methods serve you no better. Stop looking at how you differ and maybe you can one day see how you're the same."

"Dr. Kriezler, I won't marry John Moore…not right now."

"You don't have to marry him to love him, Sara. You're not listening to me! He was raised a gentleman, so he's asked for your hand. When in reality, I think all he really needs is your _heart_. Stop pushing him away…He's a good soul…one of the best people I know, honestly. And your relationship with him doesn't have to be all or nothing. Letting John get closer to you doesn't make you a failure to everything you value as a woman. Give it time to grow into something for both of you.

Your walls will kill you in the end. Being strong doesn't mean having to be closed off from the world. I learned that the hard way not so long ago."

Laszlo placed his glass on the desk in front of them and started to walk away, but as he reached the doorway, he leaned against it, turning back to her.

"If you're not interested in building something real with John that belongs to the both of you, leave him be. Let him live his life. He's finally reached a good place, he's content again. And if you knock him back down to where he was just to receive your own selfish answers, I will never forgive you for it…But if you seek him out to build something hopeful and healthy that you can share together, you have my blessing, Sara. You always have."

And Sara Howard sat in thought, listening to the echoing sounds of Laszlo's cane clicking doefully on the wood floor until he'd returned to his lonely room.


	8. Rise Up

**_When you are old and grey and full of sleep,_**

 ** _ ** _And nodding by the fire, take down these memories,_**_**

 ** _And slowly read, and dream of the soft look_**

 ** _Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;_**

 ** _How many loved your moments of glad grace,_**

 ** _And loved your beauty with love false or true,_**

 ** _But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,_**

 ** _And loved the sorrows of your changing face;_**

 ** _And bending down beside the glowing bars,_**

 ** _Murmured a little sadly, how Love fled_**

 ** _And paced upon the mountains overhead_**

 ** _And hung his face amid a crown of stars._**

 ** _\- William Butler Yeats, 1892_**

Like most mornings, John woke slowly but early, stirring with the rise in carriage traffic across the bridge and calls from bargemen on the ships five stories below. He tested the morning air with one leg before leaving his quilt behind, padding quietly to the kitchen in thin knit underwear bottoms, hand working slowly through seven months of messy morning hair, just now reaching his chin. After a lifetime of tidy short cuts, he relished the carte blanche to let his hair grow, for artists could get away with such things.

John put coffee on, then butter fried a slice of bread, skimming it with orange marmalade made by his neighbor Anna Harbaugh, an attractive young widow of means who always seemed to frequent the balcony when he did. For all the times in his life he'd been clueless, John knew that she fancied him. And he smiled, thinking of their last encounter. The two talked between their 15 ft. balcony gap about the city, the building, politics…and those terrible boy murders from the paper last winter. And then… about this relationship status.

"How long has it been since your wife's death, Mr. Moore?"

John chuckled then realized how inappropriate the response was.

"I'm afraid that I've never married, Ms. Harbaugh. My son was adopted in a time of need."

"Really…Never married?"

"No, ma'am, I'm afraid not….Self-made bachelor. But currently, I do…I have a…beloved."

He immediately wondered why he lied then realized that he hadn't really. Even if Sara didn't love him, it was still true.

"I see," she said, not having to feign disappointment but something dubious rang in her voice. "That's interesting, I haven't seen any female callers in our hallway. Or male callers for that matter, save your son."

"No, I work odd hours and don't have much accommodation for guests here. My den has remained fairly bare for painting space."

Anna looked unconvinced and sized him up slowly.

"Well….if you should ever like to come over one evening, please let me know. I'd love to put on a nice spread for you and have been told that I do, very much, put on…a nice spread."

"I'm sure you do, Ms. Harbaugh," John said with a smile, never missing the opportunity to enjoy a good double entendre.

She continued to leave the occasional jam or colored ink invitation at his door when he disappeared from time to time or didn't frequent the balcony as often. And John surprised himself by refusing all her offers, even when, ruefully, he could have used some happy conversation as well as a hot meal. She was beautiful, intelligent, well bred, well off and….well endowed. Several times, he'd actually wondered how her ample bosoms managed to say in their corset. But he just wasn't ready. And she wasn't Sara.

The old John would have jumped at the chance to sleep with anyone, for payment or otherwise, just to validate that he could. In the back of his mind, he wondered how long he'd mourn Sara before moving on; however, he wasn't drinking or whoring across town like he had when Julia abandoned him, and hopefully that meant less time.

When the pot whistle blew, John poured black coffee into a gold rimmed mug he'd packed from his grandmother's last month, wondering whether she'd noticed yet that he'd taken the mugs and the plates, as well. Presents from her as part of his engagement last year, but now they were just lovely dishes and he'd grown to like them.

He'd mention them next time he visited. And she'd be surprised, since he had a long history of hating possessions tied to sad memories. Indeed, he'd left nearly everything that reminded him of Julia with her, save the ring. A ring he thought he'd see on her finger the rest of his life. But that was the past and the present was a place where he could drink coffee out of something he'd hated just a year ago and smile, thinking of his gram's fussiness instead.

And Julia's ring, he recently learned, had gotten Flora and her sons a new place of their own near the Institute where she now worked. So it was out of his hair, as well, and doing some good instead of sitting in his desk like a burning ember. But the one remaining burned like a raging fire..

John studied the painting in front of him and wiped the bristles lightly across the front of his thigh before putting the paintbrush down, stepping back to plan his next step for the commission piece - a five foot tall portrait of the statue of liberty, washed in reds and blues, broad strokes and strong lines.

He snuck a furtive look past the double doors to see if any neighbors were out so early then sat on the wooden barstool he'd placed on the balcony, leaned his bare back against the bricked wall, taking in the view with a careful sip of steaming coffee.

He had three more weeks to finish the commission, his first of three for the Wells Fargo bank. And two behind it, a request for the East River and another for the Catskill mountains north of the city. Perhaps he would take Joseph and they'd make a week out of it. Had the boy ever even seen mountains before? And when he hit artist's block, he worked on portraits of Mary and his brother, painted from memory.

It seemed that in the age of industrialism people immediately became nostalgic for things they feared losing, somehow terrified that the burgeoning glitz of photography would somehow crush painting and the practice of "real artistry." But John had always painted, even as he drew fancifully rendered sketches for the New York's high class and captured the city's bustling society scenes for The Times, he loved the absorbing quiet intimacy of brush strokes. And even for commissions, the ambience of painting in the quiet of his home, was totally his own.

But just as he settled into his morning, the far wall practically shuddered at an assertive knock at the door. With knitted brows John walked to the door and from the other side, after a silent minute, came Sara Howard's voice.

"John Moore, open this door!"

 _tbc_

 _Author's note: This chapter also references the one-shot "Other Voices, Other Days" in which John visits Flora one last time._ _One more installment to go, guys, thanks for reading!_


	9. Veritate

**_"_ _I don't pretend to know the challenges you're facing, the world you keep erasing and creating in your mind..If I could grant you piece of mind, if you could let me inside your heart. Oh, let me be a part of the narrative, in the story they will write someday, let this moment be the first chapter where you decide to stay._** _ **And I could be enough." - Hamilton** _

Ten-year-old Sara Howard followed behind her father as they entered the Moore estate on business. But as the conversation with Igantius Moore drew out, she sighed in boredom; and when movement beyond the garden window caught her eye, she peered through, brows knitting at what she saw.

Not long after, Mr. Moore sidled up to young Sara, watched her gazing at the young man in the dead garden as he drew sunflowers with thick chalk on the white masonry wall.

Mrs. Moore was off somewhere on another "sabbatical" and the garden flowers had all died, their dried and fragile remnants quaking in the light breeze; but the tall boy was shirtless, covering the wall in bright colors of yellows and orange, abstract vibrant petals open wide to the sky amid rays of drawn sunshine.

Ignatius Moore watched her with a derisive eye.

"That's my son John. He just dropped out of the Harvard Business program to study…..ART." Sara could almost feel the man's anger. "So I've unenrolled him for a term to re-evaluate his life. He's lazy, incorrigible. His head is always off in the clouds…Mind my words, Miss Sara, there are men to be avoided in life but for every failure like John there are a dozen fine suitors in this city, and you seem like you have a good head on your shoulders," he let out of throaty laugh and looked at Sara's father, who just smiled mildly and thought to himself that his daughter would do well to marry a dreamer.

She was so serious, so deeply introspective. And he worried every day that his melancholy would eventually become part of her psyche, as well.

We could all do for a little happy dreaming, he imagined. For dreams, in the end, were sometimes the only thing that made life bearable.

 _xxx_

John stood in something of a trance, not able to absorb that Sara Howard was on the other side of his loft door.

"Open this door now!"

And with that John opened it completely, moving behind it.

After several heavy seconds of silence, she walked in and turned cautiously to see John let go of the door; it slowly waved shut.

He stood there in his underpants, a mug of coffee pressed to his middle like it could protect him, and Sara suddenly felt like she'd made a terrible mistake.

His chest rose and fell with nerves, a small silver anchor with inlaid agate around his neck. Somehow she knew it had been his brother Samuel's, and in spite of herself her eyes traveled slowly down his muscular frame then up again and she felt her face go red.

Almost to hide the fact, she rushed in, wrapping arms around him. He was here. Warm, solid. His heart pounded under her cheek, and John rested one arm lightly on the small of her back but after a few seconds he let the full mug in his other hand clatter to the floor and enveloped her with both arms, face buried in her hair.

"I've missed you," he murmured, the raspy voice tickling her ear.

When the moment finally became awkward, she pulled back, trying to focus only on his face.

"Perhaps you should….could you put some clothes on?"

"I did as I was told, you did say 'open the door now,'" he said, not hiding a small amused grin.

"I did," she laughed.

"Don't…please don't leave." He hesitated then walked down the hallway and her eyes followed him, surprised by the small freckles across his back. But he'd always loved the sun, she thought, remembering the day she first saw him. And that day in the countryside when she'd seen him last.

Sara looked around the loft's den, large but well-furnished although lightly. Scattered here and there, the floor had large dropcloths, splattered in bright colors. And three easels with works in progress on them; and another, a large mural, fastened to the wall, not painted enough for her to see the subject.

The loft smelled of coffee, sweet clove cigarettes and oddly enough….contentment.

She went into the kitchen to retrieve a dish towel to mop up the coffee he'd spilled and noticed a small pile of notes that smelled of perfume, picked one up to read the short note of a suitor.

" _Hope you like this, I've tried a new recipe. XXOO Anna_."

John suddenly appeared, wearing houndstooth pants and a starched shirt, top buttons undone and the collar missing, as he rolled up the sleeves. He was still barefoot, long black curls combed neatly back away from his face.

He looked up at her from the notes.

"My neighbor," he said, almost shyly. "I think she's sweet on me."

"I can gather that," she said evenly. Of course he had moved on and why shouldn't he have. She had turned him down, after all.

John took the towel from her hands, went into the other room, and she watched him squat down to mop up the fluid as he said, shakily, "Can I get you some coffee? That's still in the pot?"

"I'm fine. John…I'm sorry that I've come…this is…we can try and make this normal, but we both know it's not and….can we just talk? Or I can leave if you prefer. I haven't seen you in six months and..I've just shown up at your door unannounced. And after our day, the last time I saw you. I'm truly sorry, but-"

"Sara," he cut her off, looking into her eyes. She swallowed and looked at the two ornate chairs situated near the window, a small table between them, and she went to one, hoping he'd follow.

When he did, they looked out the windows at the East River, breeze coming in softly with the morning light. The sun had just fully risen and traffic across Brooklyn Bridge had hit full fervor with it, horses clopping, the sounds of commerce below.

She heard him light a cigarette, smelled the burning Sulphur off the striker and when he pushed the silver case to her side of the table, she looked at him.

"I know you smoke," he said with a small smile and shrug.

She opened the case, lighting one of her own, eyes tracing the large room. Oddly enough, the silence was not difficult between them but finally he spoke.

"I'm painting now…. Even without the family accounts, I could make a living and….I'm passionate about it, I suppose. And I don't miss the paper. Illustrations just capture things. Events, appearances. With painting, I can find the emotion in a moment, the joy…solemnity. Whatever it is, it can be preserved forever and transferred to anyone who sees it, if their heart is open. So….perhaps I've finally found my purpose in life."

"I think you've always known your purpose, you've just let go of people's judgement."

"Perhaps so," he said frankly.

Her eyes wandered the smaller canvases leaning against the walls.

"You're incredibly talented, John. I hope you're aware."

In spite of restraint, his face lit up. John had received so few real compliments in his life, he always received them like water in the desert. But it meant even more to hear them from Sara, whom he would always adore.

But he blushed, which told Sara that he didn't really know the breadth of his talent.

"It hurt me that…you started visiting Dr. Kriezler again months ago… but not me.

John looked out the window, his eyes bright, still riding a small wave of happiness from Sara's compliment.

"Sara, had I not visited Laszlo, I would have never seen him again but….I knew if you wanted to see me…you'd come by one day. And Laszlo needs his friends, especially now, even though he continues to pretend that he needs no one."

"I need my friends, as well," she answered but he responded quickly.

"I pursued you, never listened to what you truly told me. You have dreams to follow and there I was not taking them seriously, not realizing that I was asking you to give them up, not recognizing what marrying someone can mean to a woman in this day and age. I want what's best for you. And I know that's not me. Quite frankly, I'm not the best thing for any woman. For all the animosity between my father and I...I've accepted certain realities about myself. He wasn't always wrong."

He swallowed, his eyes starting to well; but she knew it wasn't self-pity, just regret.

"But Joseph needs me now, I'm a good father. I know that. And in him and with my art I have something meaningful again, even if I experience it alone."

Sara studied him carefully.

"What about your neighbor?"

John laughed heartily and rubbed at a foot crossed on top of his lap.

"Anna is looking at every man in this building as a potential suitor, I think I get a double helping only because our balconies touch."

He was breaking her heart just as badly as she'd broken his. He truly had no idea how wonderful he was.

"But you're doing well. You're not drinking?"

"No," he said quietly.

"And I heard what you did for Flora. She's very happy working at the Institute…. She asks about you."

John just smiled sadly and flicked the ash off his cigarette into a porcelain bowl resting on the table.

"Sara, when you make chief of detectives, the youngest person to do so and the first woman, I'd love to be there, in the front row, to celebrate you. If you'll let me."

She got up and went to the window, trying to find the right words for her emotions, something she'd never mastered.

"I'm sorry, John…for our day in the country. I lived there after the worst days of my childhood and the memories there were no better. I'm just as scarred as you are, we just wear our scars differently."

She turned, leaned against the glass.

"I hurt you, but there are just too many things I need to solve, too many things I need to fix...And become. I can't marry you right now. Do you understand?"

"Sara…." He looked confused. And tired. "You don't have to turn me down again, I have no expectations for us." She watched a muscle work in his jaw. "If you just came here for this…"

But she went to him and took one of his hands in hers

And before he knew it, she leaned in, kissing him deeply, feeling his mouth hesitate under hers for those first moments. And then he reciprocated, pressing into her. Sara's hand wrapped into the edge of his pants, gripping and guiding him to stand; and he did, folding into her and continuing the kiss with a small, desperate sound.

When they finally pulled apart, she looked into his eyes, catching her breath as one of his hands moved lower, fingertips pressing softly into her back, raking.

"Can I….," she breathed, realizing that behind her eyes she saw stars, something she imagined only happened in dimestore romance novels. But there they were, pin pricks of light in her eyes from the emotion of kissing him. "I would love to escort you to dinner tonight, if you're available."

John's eyes traced hers.

"I don't know how you feel about courting a woman who won't marry you. At least… at least not right now. But I can't imagine my heart ever belonging to anyone else." She took a measured breath. "If you'll have it. And I promise to take care of yours, as well, although…I'm not easy to love. I imagine you know that by now, but it should be said."

"Not easy to love?" John whispered, shaking his head that she'd say such a thing. His eyes traced hers until she finally smiled, and he kissed Sara's hand, letting his lips linger, then guided her out to the balcony. They stood, leaning a bit over the edge, their hands locked, listening to city life go by below them. Dreaming.

 ** _fin_**

 _Author's Notes:_

 _I tried to maintain some authenticity in this fic. The view and angle of John's loft, as well as the description of the windows and doors, match a current NYC hotel that served as both an apartment building and a factory during the late 1800's and early 1900's._

 _All the businesses described in this work were actually operating in New York City during 1896._

 _In the late 1800's Scottish anchor pendants and brooches with natural stone inlays were extremely popular. (Google image "Scottish anchor" to see how beautiful and unique these were.) Being a sailor, I imagined that Samuel had one of these pendants and John wore it after his brother's death; although some wore them as a sign of Christianity, especially when the main staff of the anchor had a cross bar added._

 _I studied delerium tremens and found that the hallucinations people experience during alcoholic withdrawal often mirror the traumas that caused their addictions, making withdrawal the worst gauntlet to sobriety._

 _The Flora comment references the one-shot "Other Voices, Other Days" in which John makes one last visit to Flora._

 _I apologize for any typos, as this was written very quickly, and I'll be editing over the next week or so, to tighten it up._

 _Please review or follow if you can, it makes a writer's day, and thank you for reading!_

 _Cheers,_

 _rane_


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